Irish lad living in Boston

The pressure of being a successful, well-hung writer was starting to get to me. I had nothing to write about. Nothing interesting had happened to me recently. No pregnancy scares, no nip-slips, nothing. My problems were solved when my landlord kicked down my front door at 8:00 in the morning and tried to murder me. This is the only time I haven’t been the drunkest person in the story.

It was approximately 8:02:54a.m. I was in the throes of a hangover storm that could have easily wiped out a large family of oompa loompas. The hangover was kept under control by power ballads, fiddling with myself, putting on mascara and watching the second season of Game of Thrones. Unfortunately, I found myself questioning whether I had actually watched any of season one, since I had no idea what was going on or who anyone was.

Regardless of my confusion, my morning activities kept the fear at bay. Then the door bell rang. I can’t imagine anything more frightening than hearing the doorbell ring that early in the morning, after a night out. Unless… you’re lying in bed and a gang of bears burst into your room, bellies fat with Viagra, all trained to rape any person with a vowel in their first name. Taking bear rape into account, the doorbell ringing is the second most frightening thing that can happen.

Now where were we… one ring of the doorbell was all it took for my hangover to upgrade itself to the fear. An entire universe of worry came crashing down around my bedroom. My castle of happiness was under siege!

If you understood the link between the last sentence and the above picture… go get yourself a bowl of brandy… you’ve made the cut! I pulled my hands out of my pants and placed my make-up set on the floor. I tried to figure out what had happened the night before. What did I do? Did I do something socially unacceptable? Did I set that video of a man wearing a bear mask having sex with an animatronic reindeer, as my Facebook status? I couldn’t remember. The only thing I remembered was being at a bar finishing stranger’s drinks but then my brain ran out of memory tape. The removal of memory was most likely caused by the consumption of free alcohol and its companion, monsieur glandular fever.

I knew my drunken actions from the night before were directly related to the doorbell ringing… but how? I tried to figure out who the doorbell conductor could be…

It must either be the police or the landlo…

Flashbacks raced across my mind.

A penguin. A zoo. A security guard. Two more penguins. A panda. A security guard. Three dead penguins. A police car. Hiding in a bin. Coming home. Recycling plates against a wall. Taking a dump in the…oh dear God!

I have always been a firm believer in ignoring things until they go away. Baby crying out to be fed? Ignore it parents! Nine times out of ten, it will climb out of its cot and go down to the kitchen and make something to eat. Any baby is capable of making itself a boiling hot cup of tea and a bacon and breast milk sandwich, whenever it needs it. Don’t listen to all those hippies and preachers who say different! Unfortunately no matter how much I tried to ignore the doorbell, it never stopped ringing. The loud and continuous ing-ing-ing-I’M-A-DOORBELL needed to be dealt with.

I knew at that stage that it was the landlord. How did I know? Stop being a nerdy norman asking questions and just enjoy the story. I had my dealings with landlords before and I knew exactly what to expect. After all, in college I had a landlord who never shied away from giving us a vicious dick lashing whenever we left dirty dishes pile up in the sink. But he forgot about the dirty dishes when we had our first annual Cluedo and Fireworks Party. It was Colonel Mustard… in the sitting room… with a crate full of naggins… and a bag of Russian fireworks? Correct!

I reluctantly left my willy sanctuary and answered the door. It turned out that I wasn’t ready for what was on the other side. A massive Turkish walrus, cradling a bottle of whiskey, murdered his way into my house (No one was actually murdered). Muttering and spluttering, Bowzer and Wario’s illegitimate love child stumbled into my sitting room. He walked on the wooden floor as if he was walking on rock pools and his feet were made of seaweed. Except this type of seaweed doesn’t just make lose your footing, it also turns you into a drunken prick.

Are you the landlord? I kind of hope you are since I left you into my house but at the same time I hope you’re not…

replied a very scared tenant in his underpants.

You’re a maaathaaaf**kaaa Miguel! Get me my runt Miguel! Runt now you f**k!

snapped the huge Turk.

You clearly didn’t answer my question but my name is Derek and I don’t have any runt for you. But I would really appreciate it if you didn’t kill me!

pleaded the immigrant (that’s me).

King Koopa did not have time for my pleas. He made this very clear to me when he tombstoned the couch through the coffee table. All of the violence still didn’t change the fact that I was not Miguel and didn’t owe my landlorad any rent. But when the furniture wrestling champion of the world ate the television, I had no choice but to play along with the charade/possible homicide. He told me I had five minutes to get his rent. If I did not get his rent in the allotted time, I would be beaten with my own legs, skinned with a gilette mac 7 fusion nitro 6 blade fury razor and bundled into the freezer.

(DVD Extras – Commentary: I ran into some problems while searching for the picture featured above. I was struggling to think up of some suitable keywords to search in google that would return the type of pictures I was looking for. Then I googled hung meat. It was one of the most frightening experiences in my award-winning, handsome writing career).

I devised a plan to buy me some time with my landlord. I ran into my room and stuffed some wrappers and receipts into an envelope and labelled it RUNT. The grammar hating Turk had had enough. He was eating and destroying matter when I returned with the envelope. I placed the merchandise into his giant paw. He primarily uses that hand to crush children’s starving heads. Or is it starving children’s heads? Children’s hungry heads? Hmm…

Beads of sweat skipped down the side of my face as he fingered open the envelope. His experience of teenage discos was obvious. Fortunately, he did not look into the envelope after he sexually assaulted it. The Turkish Yokozuna put the envelope under a roll of fat in his belly and danced his way out the front door.

I watched from the window as he opened up the envelope and made the discovery. No one has experienced the same terror as I did in that moment, except for a couple of hundred Iwoks when they watched Durp Vaker’s Deep Star rise into the sky above them. The huge drunken object lifted itself from the ground. Its cities of fat migrated into place providing the whiskey fueled monster with some stability. A door with a dodgy lock was the only thing that stood between me and years of therapy.

I spent the next hour watching my 300lb landlord throw himself against my front door. Thankfully on his 51st effort, he annihilated his face off of the bronze door handle and crumbled into a blood stained blob. Like any good Samaritan… I went outside… sat down on the dead bean bag… and drank his bottle of whiskey. Then I called an ambulance. Or maybe I went to a roller disco. I can’t remember. It doesn’t really matter anyway.